


When Last We Met

by Caenea



Series: The Winterfell Reunions [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fix of Eastwatch, Foul Language, Reunions, uncomfortable conversation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-15 21:18:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11814369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caenea/pseuds/Caenea
Summary: The Hound reunites with the Stark girls after being brought from the Eastwatch cells to meet the men who plan to advance beyond the Wall. For Sansa, the moment is bittersweet, but for Arya the event is problematic to say the least...





	When Last We Met

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the same alternative timeline as The King Comes Home (because seriously, fuck D&D for depriving us of these reunions), I have brought the Hound to Winterfell to face his past. Written on request of those who wanted The King Comes Home to develop a little more.  
> As a memory prompt (as much for myself as others), we might recall that Sansa last saw the Hound when she found him in her bedroom during the Battle of the Blackwater, when he declared his intention to travel North and offered to take her with him – an offer she declined.  
> Arya last saw the Hound when he had fought Brienne, as he begged her to kill him because he was on her list. Arya refused and left him to die, although she did at least advise him he was no longer on her list.  
> So, with all that out of the way, let’s get cracking. Story told from a third person narrative view.

The gates of Winterfell are standing open, and through the snowstorm a party of people are visible. Arya watches from the walkway, her sister beside her, her heart still beating erratically against her ribs. Gendry is in the courtyard with Brienne, showing her his warhammer, and Arya does not want to admit that at least half her purpose on the walkway is watching him. If Sansa knows where her eyes wander and if she wonders why, she asks no questions of her and Arya is grateful. They’re not questions she could answer.

 

Jon has gone to the gate, obviously expecting these guests. He turns and sees his sisters, and beckons. Arya draws back.

                “It’s you he wants,” she says, looking at Sansa. “You’re the Lady of Winterfell.” Her sister rolls her eyes, but doesn’t argue with the smaller girl. She descends the stairs with the same grace she does everything – Arya has to wonder if there’s anything shocking enough to break that cool calm. Jon doesn’t attempt to call her down too, and she looks out beyond the gates to the party that are nearly inside now. Wildlings, she realises, recognising the grey furs from her sister’s talk about them. One of the men has hair even redder than her sister’s, and a beard of the same, rather giving the impression he’s framed by fire. It’s not until they’re closer that Arya recognises two of them, and as Gendry gives a start and tightens his hold of his weapon, she knows he has too.

 

The Brotherhood Without Banners – or Thoros and Beric at least. Gendry had planned to join them once, before they sold him in cold blood to the Red Priestess. Silently she hopes that Gendry does not lunge for them. Brienne has half-turned towards the walkway, looking up to where Arya stands her watch. Their eyes meet and Arya gestures at Gendry, then points to herself. Brienne touches his arm, points to her, and it works. Gendry turns from the gate to walk to her, joining her on the walkway. They don’t speak, but he rests his hands on the rail beside hers and she slides her own hand along until their little fingers touch. It’s a silent show of support, because the Gods know that neither of them have ever been so good at talking about how they feel.

 

The fourth man is huge, taller than even Brienne and Arya feels the recognition stirring at her heart. She starts upright from her casual lean, her mouth open with an exclamation of some unnamed emotion welling in her throat, but it never comes. It never comes because Sansa is rushing forward, her hair catching in the breeze to paint red strands into the air and she has cried aloud a name that Arya finds shocking in its familiarity.

                “Sandor!” Arya is too far away to hear the Hound’s response, and she is so buried in her thoughts that Gendry’s touch to her shoulder, light though it is, has her hand flying to Needle.

                “Easy,” he cautions. “What is it?”

                “The Hound,” she answers, and Gendry surveys him as Jon leads the party away, probably to the Hall.

                “Never saw him up close, just around the Street of Steel. Looks a terror.”

                “I travelled with him, after you and I were separated. He tried to help me find my family. We were always too late. Always, we were just too late.”

                “You got separated?” he asks, because of course.

                “In a way. I left him for dead.”

 

She gives him no chance to answer her. She slips away on silent feet, taking a route little known to others, sliding into the Hall with the silence of a ghost. The Hound is sitting at a table, her sister beside him, and they are speaking quietly whilst Jon deals with the red-headed Wildling and the Brotherhood. In another situation, Arya perhaps would have dealt with them, would have questioned them or perhaps challenged them to a fight. But all her attention is drawn to her sister and the man she left to die on a hillside, bloodied and broken and begging her for death.

                “It has not been a good road,” Sansa is saying. “I was too stupid and too childish to recognise your offer as one of safety. I ought to have left with you.”

                “I heard things on the road,” the Hound grunts, drinking deep from a tankard of ale someone has given him. “None of ‘em good.”

                “Not all were terrible. Many were dreadful, but not all.”

                “Sorry to hear it.”

                “I survived it,” Sansa answers. “That is what matters. I survived it and I am stronger for it. And many of my debts have been settled, so it isn’t as bad as it might have been. And you have survived too, and I am glad to see it. You were kind to me, and I’ve never forgotten it.”

                “You were a fragile child. Kings Landing was no place for you. If I’d been a better man I would have taken you away regardless of having your consent.”

                “The Battle of the Blackwater was a terrible day,” Sansa says. “You would not have escaped the city with me; I would only have slowed you down or made us too conspicuous. I was never a girl for subterfuge and swiftness. I am better suited to scheming than to battling.”

                “Aye, you are. Learnt from the best.”

                “Cersei taught me a great deal. I do not wield a sword or knife, but I have my own weapons now and they helped me to survive. Perhaps leaving me behind was the best thing. By remaining in the heart of the danger, I learnt more than I believed possible. I learnt to survive in a nest of vipers and learnt to turn the poison onto the snakes.”

                “I shouldn’t have left you to learn those things.”

                “Perhaps. But you saved me from those men during the riots and they would have killed me as sure as I sit here now, as a Lady of Winterfell.”

“I was a cause of your marriage.”

“At least it wasn’t to Joffrey,” Sansa answers. “Tyrion was good to me, in his way. He did nothing to hurt me – everything he did was to make me happy and ensure my comfort. I was pleased to hear that he escaped the capital.”

“He always was a slippery cunt.” The two are quiet, and Arya watches. The Hound wipes ale from his beard and belches. Sansa does not recoil. She looks so fragile beside his frame, like a whip of willow held as a weapon against a battleaxe. “I met your sister on the road,” the Hound says, and Arya jolts sharply, swaying forward despite herself. “Fearsome little cunt.” Sansa smiles.

                “Oh yes, she is that. She is a – unique woman.” The Hound chokes a little.

                “Is? Fuck me, she’s here?”

                “Why yes. She came home to us.” Arya feels something in her heart warm at the love in her sister’s voice.

                “We didn’t part on good terms.” That gives Sansa pause.

                “Shall I send someone to find her?”

                “Thought she might be dead,” he grunts. “Hadn’t heard anything.”

                “Nobody had. Wherever she went, they didn’t have ravens.”

                “She thought you were dead. Couldn’t say for sure. All sorts of rumours.”

                “We thought she was. But I rather feel that she might be hard to kill.”

                “Direwolves always are.”

 

The conversation between the two languishes, and Arya knows she cannot hide forever. But still she stays in her shadow, only watching as a boy brings food and more ale, and the Hound devours the meal like a man who hasn’t seen food in a long time.

                “Threatened to stab me through the eye once,” the Hound grunts around a mouthful of bread. “Your sister.”

                “She can be – abrasive.”

                “She can be a fucking wildcat. Told me I was the worst shit in the seven kingdoms. Told me I was on her list.”

                “Her list is still long. My brother Bran told me she recites it before she sleeps.”

                “She does. Kept me awake many nights reciting that list. I was on it.”

                “Was?”

                “Aye, was. She took me off it, just before she left me to die on a hillside.” Sansa starts, her face blanching a little. “Didn’t tell you, then.”

                “She’s told me little.”

                “For good reason,” Arya says, stepping forward now. “I saw things I won’t tell you. You don’t need to hear them. You don’t need to tell her.” The Hound rises slowly, and Jon stops his conversation with the Wildling to look over, his hand drifting to his sword. The Wildling stops him, interest alive in his eyes.

                “I begged you for mercy,” the Hound growls, staring down at her.

                “I am not merciful.”

                “You’re a vicious cunt.”

                “I learnt from the best.”

                “Another Braavosi bastard?”

                “From no one,” Arya answers, the smirk curling her lips.

                “I haven’t got the patience for you to talk to me in fucking riddles.”

                “I learnt from the living,” she elaborates and she sees the flicker of remembrance in his eyes even as he draws his knife and holds it against her throat.

                “I should stick a fucking blade into your throat and let you bleed like a stuck pig.” Without breaking eye contact, Arya draws Needle.

                “You’re welcome to try,” she says. “But you should know that since I left you bloody and broken at the hands of Brienne of Tarth, I have learnt a few things.”     

                “I’ll worry about that toothpick of yours when you can beat her.”

                “I can match her.” The shock reverberates through the room, and out of the corner of her eye, Arya sees the Wildling lean forward.

                “Am I back on that list of yours, girl?”

                “No,” she answers, and sees his surprise. “I told you that you weren’t on it. From what I just heard, my sister owes you something. For her, I’ll keep you off it.” Their swords remain drawn and they face each other off. “Shall we fight, Hound? Or shall you sheath your blade and share an ale?”

                “I’ll sheath my blade, if you tell me why you didn’t kill me.” Arya looks at him thoughtfully, and Sansa looks between the two as if she is considering jumping between them.

                “I took you off my list, and I swore to myself I would kill nobody who didn’t deserve it. I killed an innocent once, and never again. I’ve closed a lot of eyes forever. I don’t need the deaths of good men on my conscience.” The silence stretches on and then, slowly, the Hound pulls his knife back, sheathing it with a hiss of blade against leather. In turn, Arya lowers Needle.

                “I’m no good man.”

                “You’re no monster.” The tension is slipping away, but the air is uneasy with the uncertainty of the others, Jon and Sansa uppermost.

                “You know nothing of monsters.”

                “I know enough,” she answers, and perhaps he sees the truth in her face. He turns to the table, he pours two tankards and hands her one. He holds up his in silent salute.

                “To old scores, and the deaths of cunts.”

                “To good men living,” she answers, and the clank of the tankards shatters the last of their tension. They drink deep and Arya turns away, the last of her amends made and her heart sitting a little easier for it.

 

There will be questions of course, but they can wait. For now, she seeks out Gendry, and he does not ask why she kisses him.

                                                                                                                                                                                    

 

**Author's Note:**

> Your support has made this possible and inspired me to continue The King Comes Home narrative. 
> 
> I hope this meets with approval and that you all enjoy it. The comments and the kudos on the previous work have kept me smiling literally all day.


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